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Why can’t this be the one thing I don’t have to try at? Why can’t it be a thing that just…happens? I don’t want—I don’t want to think about what I should say or how I should act or…or have talking points in the notes app of my phone for a dinner date at a restaurant that I don’t really like. I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want…I want the magic.”
“But what’s wrong with being a romantic? I can be a confident, independent woman and still want someone to hold my hand. To ask about my day. It’s a good thing to want passion and excitement and care. Attention and affection. I don’t want to settle for anything less than that.
“I want goose bumps. I want to be wanted. All this time and I—I haven’t given up. I guess I’m just waiting for it to find me.”
“I like thinking that it doesn’t need to be fancy to be special. Maybe…maybe they’d remember I like fountain soda best or daisies instead of roses. Little things that’d let me know they’ve been paying attention.”
“I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.”
“Have you been crying?”
Her cheeks are wet, her nose red. I’m feeling more than a little unhinged. “Who the fuck made you cry?” I snap.
I’m desperate to keep her here. I can feel it buzzing under my skin, the frantic desire to fix it. Whatever it is.
He was blond, for god’s sake.
Hahahahaahah
“Nah, Lucie.” In my dream, he brushes a kiss against my forehead. “I think you’re the magic.”
“Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”
She took her hand back about an hour ago, before the aforementioned beers, and I’ve been silently scheming on the other end of the table for ways to get it back.
“I’ve been flirting with you.” “Since when?” “Since I made a vague innuendo about oral surgery, give or take a couple of hours.” “Oh,” I say. Then, “Really?”
“If you’re jealous, I’m jealous too. Worse, probably.”
This infatuation I have with Aiden needs to end. He’s made it very clear he can’t give me what I want, and I’m not in the habit of pushing people. I’m going to believe what he says. I’m not going to beg him to be something he’s not. I won’t beg him to want me.
I’ve heard so many sounds out of Lucie these past couple of weeks. Her laughter and her sighs and the small amused huff she makes in the back of her throat when we have a ridiculous caller. The rasp in her voice when she’s tired and the way she licks around the edges of consonants and vowels when she’s saying my name. I’m an expert on the soundtrack of Lucie,
“Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.”
She shuffles closer and rests her chin against my shoulder. “You’re still crushing on me.” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. “Obviously.”
Now I know what he was doing with his seven minutes. He was collecting every spare blanket and a beach towel—if the blue sea turtles are any indication—to create a makeshift tent. “Like a picnic,” I breathe. I look up at him and grin. “You remember what I said.”
“That excited, huh?” I try to pinch him again, but he grabs my hand and drags it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my palm. My breath hitches and both of his dark eyebrows arch up. “Ooh, she’s very excited.”
“Not wanting me to go isn’t the same as wanting me to stay. I want you, Aiden. No one else. You decide what happens next, okay?”
I read it once and then again. It’s a list of—it’s a list of my favorite things. Things I’ve mentioned on the show and things I haven’t. Things he must have noticed.
